No matter how genuine Mrs. Prenfrew's distress seemed, Murdoch was obligated to investigate her as well, especially since she was likely the only person who knew of her late husbands previous living arrangements. Furthermore, just because it was unlikely that Mr. Prenfrew was one of the intended targets, did not rule out the possibility all together. At the moment Murdoch had George and Henry looking into the Prenfrew's financial history. If there was anything of note to discover, they would, as they had done countless times before.

In the meantime, Murdoch and Brackenreid headed back down to the entertainment district of downtown Toronto so that they could conduct further interviews. They figured this would be easier than calling everyone in. Besides, this way it would give them a chance to snoop around any potential suspects places of business, possibly yielding some valuable clues. Their first stop was the theatre a block away from the burned down one, Finkley's Fine Folks. From George's initial street interviews, it was apparently common knowledge that there was a rivalry between them. If anyone would want to get rid of the competition, it would be them.

Upon entering, they immediately witnessed some rather extraordinary sights. Two buxom ladies with flowing flaxen hair were dancing expertly to a rather lively ragtime number played by a twenty something negro male on a worn down piano. Their feet were moving so fast as to be blurs. As well, some acrobats and jugglers were in the background making a spectacle of themselves but appeared to be separate from the goings on in front.

"That's the Maple Leaf Rag," said Brackenreid somewhat loudly. "A staple of this genre."

"I thought you did not care for such things, sir?"

Brackenreid scowled and grumbled, "I don't but Margaret makes me go to the goddamn things once in awhile."

As they approached the multitudes on the stage, they noticed a flamboyantly dressed old man jump out of his seat, gesticulating wildly and yelling at the performers to stop.

"No, no, no!" he shouted, the music abruptly cutting off. "That's just not good enough! If you want to keep your slot tonight, be better!"

"And how on earth do you suggest we do that?" shouted back one of the irate dancers, hands on her hips.

"That's your problem, Miss Darlow!"

She muttered something that sounded like, 'I'd like to see you try, you incompetent poof.'

"What was that?" he asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Nothing, sir," she replied smiling sweetly.

It was at this silent point that Murdoch cleared his throat prompting everyone to take notice of them. They flashed their badges and Brackenreid said, "We're investigating the destruction of Le...of the bloody theatre that was torched!"

Looks were shared and then Miss Darlow said, "A man was killed too, right?"

"That is correct," said Murdoch, nodding. "It was Mr. Prenfrew."

There were some intakes of breath at that information but for the most part no one reacted.

"Why this is horrible!" exclaimed the other dancer. "I only met him once but I could tell right away that he was a kind, generous soul!"

"Yes," continued Murdoch, "which is why we need your help to get down to the bottom of this."

"They don't know anything!" burst out the man, presumably Mr. Finkley. "They're in from America and aren't familiar with these parts! Besides which, they weren't even out here last night! There was no show, unlike tonight!"

"Listen here, sunshine!" barked Brackenreid, stepping towards the man with cane outstretched and making him flinch, "I don't give a toss about your show! The only thing I care about is catching the bastard responsible for this! And anyone who impedes the detectives investigation will have me to answer to!"

"Oh all right!" he cried, throwing his hands up into the air. "Ask your questions!"

Murdoch, "Did anyone see anything suspicious last night at around eleven o'clock?"

No one responded. Some shook their heads and then the negro hesitatingly spoke.

"Yes, sir, I believe I did." He had a slow, deep, husky voice and likely would be a fine baritone. "But it wasn't last night. It was the night before."

"Spit it out son!" snapped Brackenreid losing his patience.

"I was on my way to the hotel after visiting with some old friends, when I saw someone lurking in the alleyway by the theatre. They looked to me to be checking the place out. When they saw me, they took off in the opposite direction."

"And did you also see what they looked like, Mr.-?" prompted Murdoch.

"It's Jackson, *Tony Jackson. As to the person, I couldn't say. They had a hooded cloak on and I never saw their face."

"Were they a man or a woman, Mr. Jackson?"

"Again, sir, I can't say, it was too dark for that."

"How tall were they?"

"I'm not sure, but I'd say about Miss Darlow's height."

"With or without her current footwear?"

She had high heeled shoes on that made her several inches taller.

He thought about that for a moment. "Without."

That meant that this mystery person was about five feet, ten inches. Or Mr. Finkley's height.

"Thank you, Mr. Jackson."

"My pleasure, detective."

"Did anyone else notice this hooded individual hanging around last night?" asked Brackenreid.

No response.

"Well, there you have it," said Mr. Finkley. "Please leave now, we have much work to do and little time to do it."

Brackenreid looked about ready to bite his head off again but Murdoch intervened. "Just one more question, sir. Was there any animosity between you and the deceased?"

"What are you trying to insinuate?"

Murdoch smirked slightly. "Nothing, sir, I'm just trying to determine why you are so keen to get rid of us."

"It's like I said before," he muttered, "we have much work to do."

"Not from where I'm standing," said Brackenreid, giving the dancers a wink and making them giggle.

"Forgive me, inspector but you clearly don't know anything about the arts."

Brackenreid looked like his honour had been called in to question and Murdoch again spoke before there was another face off.

"Mr. Finkley, you have yet to answer my question."

Brackenreid was angrily grumbling under his breath. Murdoch heard a few choice British phrases that were not fit for polite company.

"We quarrelled from time to time, it's true. But I would never have harmed him!"

"What was the source of this quarrelling?"

"Oh, he seemed to think I didn't treat my performers properly. Can you believe that?"

"And it had nothing to do with your rivalry?"

Mr. Finkley guffawed. "There is-was no rivalry detective."

"Care to elaborate on that?" asked Brackenreid, having regained his composure.

"Perhaps you don't know how these things work. Someone catches a whiff of contempt and suddenly we must want each other dead. It's the way of show business and always will be. The fact is that there was plenty of business for the both of us. There was no need to take out the competition because there was none. In case you hadn't realized, people are nuts over Vaudeville these days. Business has never been better. If anyone would want to get rid of us folks, it would be the other entertainment types, particularly that Señor Pellegrino at the Opera Company."

"I see, well thank you for your time."

After they left the theatre Brackenreid said, "What do you think, Murdoch? Is the old faerie full of codswallop?"

"I'm afraid I don't have enough information yet to give my opinion one way or the other."

"Someone dressed in a cloak certainly does sound like someone from the opera."

"Yes, sir, it does indeed." Murdoch gave him a pitying look. "If this avenue of investigation is not to your liking, sir, I can always continue by myself."

Brackenreid scowled. "Let's just get this over with. It's not like I haven't been dealt this blow before."

*Jackson was a well loved pianist who could reportedly play any song from memory that he had heard only once. He also had an incredible singing voice that was operatic. And he was openly gay but I'm not sure if this was the case in 1902 or if it was a bit later, I'm guessing later. My point is that he was quite a rare individual back then.